


Love Potion

by estike



Category: La Légende du Roi Arthur, アーサー王伝説 | La Légende du Roi Arthur - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 08:47:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12931752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estike/pseuds/estike
Summary: As an act of vengeance, Morgane attempts to brew the perfect potion of love for Guinevere. Amidst the careful planning, she only forgets that love can be just as whimsical as magic itself.





	Love Potion

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the (Takarazuka adaptation of the) musical and thus does not necessarily attempt to take any of the actual mythology and canon into consideration.

A potion of love is the most whimsical magic of them all. There is no spell, no incantation precise or powerful enough to induce pure love out of thin air.

Lust, perhaps. Affection. Or momentary confusion.

This is why Merlin cannot make her mother love the disgusting king Uther. This is why he resorts to changing appearances and deceiving his victims like some villain.

Love cannot be so simply cooked up in a cauldron. It cannot be brewed in a day or a week.

But Morgane will try, anyway.

The love is not for herself. She is too scared of that. At times, you keep aching for something for so long, you realize with bitter resignation that even if you sought it out, reality could never satisfy you anymore. Or, in the depths of the solitude of your own existence, you resolve that your despair is still not as strong as your pride. And Morgane is proud.  

She will not go around, begging, borrowing, stealing love where she cannot get it from for free. Instead, she will scorch others with the fire of artificial love. Not for any reason in particular.

Well, apart from vengeance.

Arthur will not get the potion treatment, he deserves less. He deserves the exact same thing his father had done, as payback. Son will pay for the sins of his father, and he will carry the burden on his back until he dies a pitiful death, mourning the destruction of his own kingdom.

She brews love for his bride. Guinevere.

An illicit affair that will tempt her like the scent of a sweet, juicy berry, begging to be consumed. It will taste like heaven, too, but it will be full of poison, succulent and dark, tainting her from the inside. And once she realizes that, it will be too late to stop. Sin will consume her.

Morgane does not do this for any reason other than tormenting Arthur. What is more delightful than taking someone else’s wife, making her into a puppet of her own selfish revenge, and watch the court fall apart due to her adultery?

Guinevere is a beautiful princess. An excellent bride.

Meleagant surely was not the first man who took a liking to her and decided to make her his, no matter what the price. Arthur surely will not be the last man, either.

A potion of love is also never made for men. It is unlikely, for a man, to be needing anything of the such. A stray smile, rosy cheeks, or even a glance could have an effect a hundred, a thousand times stronger than any spell of lust could induce.

So, she does not care about Lancelot. Once he arrives at court, he will fall in love with Guinevere soon enough.

The matter is Guinevere. How will she fall in love?

She is a simple, loyal girl. Young, and trusting.

And sadly enough, Arthur is trustworthy, too. Without a strong temptation, Guinevere will not look for another lover, and Morgane knows this.

She hates them both. She hates the way they trust, the way they love, the way they got their hands full of happiness. If she could do anything to break up this calmness they are all enveloped in! To show them the hell she had to live through!

So she will craft love. She will create the most powerful potion of love history has ever seen. It does not matter what sort of tricks she needs to use to make Lancelot into the ideal man in Guinevere’s world, it does not matter how many months it will take to create the perfect blend, she will create the perfect illusion.

Guinevere will fall in love with Lancelot, on her command, to torment Arthur. She has decided that.

That means she needs to find out everything about Guinevere. Everything. In order to create the perfect lover for her, manipulating Lancelot as her pawn.

 

The day Lancelot leaves for Camelot, she visits Guinevere’s chambers at night, in the guise of Arthur. Her steps are silent as she crosses the hallway, quietly enough to stop in front of Arthur’s chambers and cast a spell, which would lock him inside until the sun comes up. That way, there cannot be two Arthurs visiting his bride tonight.

She never felt so stocky, so awkward, it makes her uncomfortable now. Her aerial movements are forcefully replaced by Arthur’s, heavy, clumsy limbs. She wonders if this is what it is like, to be a guest in someone else’s body. Even though she is using a dummy, a mere illusion in the place of Arthur, it still seems like that he is trying to extrude her, as if she was some sort of an illness, taking over his real body.

Guinevere’s eyes light up when she sees her at the door. Him. When she sees her betrothed at the door.

“Your Majesty!”

She throws her arms around her, pressing close to her chest. Guinevere’s embrace is earnest, and she is just short enough for her to place a chin on top of her head, on her thick, golden locks. Something warm washes through her entire body at the contact.

“Your Majesty has been so busy. I kept waiting for the visits at night, but you never came.”

You never came? Morgane tries to suppress a bitter laugh. Baby brother, you truly are a fool, she thinks to herself. The girl still does not release her from the suffocating, awful embrace.

Good. The more hesitant Arthur is to make a nightly visit, the more receptive his little bride will be to any advancements towards her. Morgane vows to lock Arthur in his own room for every night from now on, and to deny every visit of his from Guinevere – she will never pretend to be him again, either.

Guinevere looks up at her.

“What is that stern face for? Are you troubled by something?”

She quickly tries to arrange her expression and attempts a smile instead. It must look pathetic from the outside.

“I am simply tired.”

Guinevere pulls away to have a proper look. She tilts her head, with a sweet giggle.

“Your Majesty has been very tired ever since I arrived in Camelot?”

“Very.”

She stops giggling and leads her towards the bed. Morgane does not necessarily need to feign awkwardness when she lies down next to her, body beside body. The girl stares deeply into her face as if she was trying to read it.

“Do you perhaps regret making me your bride?”

She tries to find the right answer. Arthur would not be dismissive, to be sure. But if she wants Guinevere’s heart to separate from him, and if she wants her to pine for a new love, the quickest way is harsh rejection. She thinks too long about it, and before she knows, the girl’s arms are already around her, sneaking a kiss on her lips.

“You do not! Do you?”

The kiss entirely paralyzes her, taking her by surprise, and she cannot form the perfect answer. Guinevere takes the silence as the declaration of Arthur’s continuing interest. She cuddles up with her and brings the blanket above them. 

“You must be truly exhausted, Your Majesty. Let me sing you a lullaby.”

She hums a song Morgane does not know, into her ears, and seeks her hands under the blanket. Morgane cannot sleep for a second, but soon enough, the girl sings herself to sleep, dozing off on her shoulder, with their fingers interlaced.

She came here to get to know Guinevere better, but for the most part, she only leaves with one crucial information the next morning. Arthur has not visited.

And now, he never will.

 

She leaves before Guinevere would wake. The magic is wearing off quickly enough. When she arranges the blanket on the girl, she still does it with Arthur’s hand. By the time she leaves the bedchambers, her face is already changing back to her true form, and the thick curtain of her hair suddenly feels strangely heavy as it starts pulling at her head again.

When she returns to her own quarters, she could only add one ingredient into Guinevere’s potion. Solitude.

Arthur is lonely, too, but thankfully, he is also a coward. Morgane will only need to make sure that Guinevere will not be visited by him, or anyone who could interfere with her plan, until Lancelot arrives at court.

Guinevere is shining during breakfast, with the two demon maids sitting by her side. By now, she made them dress up in gaudy gowns, befitting of court ladies. Morgane finds that endearing. (Because she is not the one forced to wear those gowns.) 

“Elder sister!” Her eyes glitter. “Come, sit by our side! You look exhausted.”

She fills Morgane’s cup with water from a pitcher and gestures towards Leia and Hellawes.

“Your maids are wonderful. I am grateful you handed them over to me. But… are you not troubled without their help?”

She pretends to be smiling but all she does is showing her teeth.

“My needs are not that special.”

Knowing that revenge will be hers while she dresses herself in the morning should be enough. It is not that witches need their attendants for mundane things. But Guinevere is a naïve, innocent princess, who was attended all her life, she does not know anything else. She wants to help.

“Surely, it is difficult to manage alone. Everyone could do with some help. I will arrange something for you! You have been so kind to me, after all.”

She says nothing apart from a curt nod. After taking a small breakfast, she beckons her demons to come with her. One more thing, they can add the essence of blind, foolish generosity to the brew. If Guinevere wants to help and trust this desperately, if they enhanced that, the fall would break her even more. Breaking Guinevere is the gateway to make Arthur crumble down on a whole, too.

“Does she talk about anything?” she asks the demons. “Of what she likes in Arthur. Of what she wants.”

“His tolerance,” Leia answers.

“And courage.”

“Courage!?”

If Guinevere wanted courage, she should not have agreed to marry a coward. Or, if she thinks he is brave, after all, she knows nothing of bravery. She notes it, anyway. Once Lancelot comes, her magic shall make him tolerant and brave, just as the princess wished.

Anything for the sake of a successful love potion. She will power it up with the illusions of what Guinevere is looking for.

“Keep being by her side. Help her in everything. Listen to everything she says and everything she wants,” she instructs her demons. Then, she adds, with a smile. “I will give it to her.” 

 

The night falls, and she waits around for Arthur to return to his chambers. He never comes. The night turns deep, and he is still nowhere to be found, so she anxiously goes to Guinevere’s quarters, pressing her ear to the door. Did Arthur gather enough courage, finally?

There are no sounds coming out from the room.

Later, she finds that Arthur is with Merlin and his knights still. Good. She listens in to their conversation, fleeting, useless plans about the Round Table, and the Holy Grail, and leaves them at that.

If anyone’s door should be locked tonight, it is not Arthur’s, but Guinevere’s.

When she approaches the door, she changes her mind in the last moment, and instead of a spell, she pushes the door in. Guinevere is already on her bed, raising her head a little and extending her neck to see who came in. Surely, she expects Arthur again.

“Beautiful younger sister,” she susurrates under a thin, sleek smile. “Did I wake you?”

Guinevere is surprised, but she sits up in her bed. Her hair is tangled, flowing down in front of her chest in a glorious mess. Even her eyes are only half open.

Morgane realizes she has no reason to be here, other than not wanting Arthur to take the place beside his bride. She shakes her head.

“I was looking for Arthur,” she claims. “He is not in his chambers…”

Guinevere’s expression turns saddened and she looks around in the room – as if she was looking for Arthur, hoping he would magically be here, after all.

“He does not visit me often,” she says in a thin voice. “But it is difficult to sleep alone, now.”

“Cold?”

“Cold, too. And lonely.”

Morgane tilts her head, lured in. Guinevere only shrugs, as if she already accepted her fate, of not being sought out by her own betrothed, even despite the passionate vows of love they shared all those weeks ago. She must feel too scared to go herself. Too scared, or too inappropriate.

Morgane latches the door. Even if Arthur wants to come, he cannot come in tonight. Then, she sits down next to the girl on her bed, close enough so their thighs would almost touch. Suddenly, she is overflown by memories of Guinevere’s hands around her (around Arthur) the night before, of her sweet, wet kisses on her lips. Needy, and ready to give away all her affections.

“That can be helped. You do not have to sleep on your own.”

The girl stares at her, wide-eyed, but then a blissful smile appears on her face.

“You’re right, elder sister.” 

She takes Morgane by the hand, softly and gently, as she did last night, and pulls her down into a lying position. Panic washes over her, wondering if this is going according to her plan, but soon enough, she is calm again. Guinevere brings her close, into an embrace. She smells sweet, not unlike the temptation of a well-crafted love potion.

She lies next to her, motionless. It feels even more awkward than last night – last night she pretended to be someone Guinevere loved. Tonight, she is all herself. Choked up.

Guinevere’s hand runs through her black curls, before settling on her waist. They face one another.

“Let us hope we both sleep better, tonight.”

She tells herself that she hates Guinevere, the same way she hates Arthur. The girl is only a tool for her revenge. She is only here to find out what she likes and use it against them. Nothing more, nothing less.

When they wake up, Guinevere clutches her in her arms, as if she was nothing more but a sizable ragdoll that provides her company for the night. Golden strands of hair tickle Morgane’s face.

She releases herself and returns to her chambers to enrich the potion. Cold at night. The desire not to sleep alone anymore.

 

Guinevere waves at her during breakfast and beckons her to join her and the demons again. Leia and Hellawes are not only good to act as spies but they provide to be useful to shield Guinevere from Arthur, too. At night, she locks his door. In the morning, the demons make sure that she cannot be approached.

Guinevere puts some fruit in her mouth she finds delicious, to make her taste it.

“Isn’t it nice, elder sister?” she asks, as she wipes the excess from her chin to help.

Her touch resurrects memories from the nights before.

“You enjoy sweet fruit?”

“So much.”

So love truly should be sweet, succulent, and tempting, sleek and deep purple like the grapes she is holding. It is research. Also on what Guinevere likes.

After that, she keeps visiting her chambers at night, to prevent Arthur from coming in. She sits by her side in the morning, too.

In the afternoons, when the weather is nice, and Guinevere is bored, she accompanies her to the gardens as well, although most of the flowers wither already, dropping their petals. Morgane likes it that way, and the girl does not mind either. It does not matter where she goes, her presence fills any place with love, laughter, kindness, and light.

She intertwines their arms and rests a palm on her hand.

“Elder sister… do you like it in Camelot?”

“Do I like it?”

Guinevere stares up at the sky, as they walk. Unlike when she was inhabiting Arthur’s body, the girl is a lot taller than her. It feels different.

“I think it is a world of dreams. Very different from the castle I come from. Is it different from where you come from?”

Morgane comes from hell, so naturally, it can only be different. She cannot say such things to such a lovely, trusting creature, however. Morgane likes the rot. She does not mind it. But when she thinks about it, there is something different in Camelot. The bright ray of hope hurts her eyes.

“It is different.”

“Better?”

“Maybe.”

Guinevere tilts her head. Perhaps her answers were too short, or too cold, she thinks. But a moment later, the girl is chattering again.

“Back at home, I had no other ladies to truly rely on. Surely, I had all the attendants and the wet nurse, but their friendship is servitude. It is the same as with the court ladies, here. But you are different. You are Arthur’s sister, so you have a different social standing.”

She looks at the girl, curiously. Just what is she trying to say by that? Guinevere catches the look in her eyes, because continues, with a proud smile.

“I am not naïve,” she says, naively. “I know that court ladies and such are not kind to the future queen because they want to be. But you? You do not have to be kind. You only treat me well because you choose to do so. You can show me your true nature.”

Morgane grows pale but masks her surprise with a scratchy laughter. If Guinevere truly was not naïve, she would not say things like this to her. Instead, she is cuddling the enemy, blindly.

That does not matter. In fact, for Morgane’s plan to work smoothly, the girl’s innocent little heart is more precious than anything else.

“It is hard to find true friendship at a royal court,” she decides to say, after a while.

Guinevere nods in agreement.

“I always wished for a genuine friendship. Often, if I talk too much, I feel scared afterwards that I revealed too much. You and your maids make me feel at ease.”

Once they part ways, Morgane finds her brew and sprinkles it with the promise of a genuine friendship. It will only enrich the essence of love.

 

By the time Lancelot arrives at Camelot, she has almost forgotten it is thanks to her magic that he was beckoned to come in the first place. He looks odd, and out of place, with his ash blonde hair, square jaw, and a gaze ready to conquer anything that comes in his way.

Morgane does not like it.

She does not like the way Lancelot dresses, the way Lancelot carries himself, the way Lancelot speaks. The way Lancelot speaks to Guinevere.

As she expected, no magic is needed for a man to take notice of the fairest maiden at the castle and approach her. As it was not expected, however, self-restraint is needed for Morgane to let her demons lead the future lovers in each other’s way, and sprinkle the air with lust and desire.

She spent long weeks in Guinevere’s bed, picking her brain and her heart ceaselessly to find out everything about her – her favourite colour, her favourite lullaby, her favourite scent, her favourite games, useless childhood memories.

Is it Lancelot who braided her hair in the evenings before going to bed, so in the morning, when she untangled them, they would seem wavy and neat? Is it Lancelot whose brows she kissed at night before going to sleep? Whose hands she held when they were taking a stroll in the late autumn gardens? Who she sang the sweetest lullabies to? 

Morgane poured all of those into her brew. All of it!

She snaps out of it a moment later. After all, this is all part of her plan. She did all this, so she can create the perfect illusion of a lover for Guinevere. The perfect love, which can bring about the fall of Camelot, then.

How could she forget about all of this?

Guinevere introduces Lancelot, and Arthur makes him his knight. As she wished the story to proceed.

Lancelot crumbles at the truth of having tried to seduce the king’s bride and he is forgiven, by Guinevere’s beloved tolerance. And foolishness. The lovers are all set up, ready to be drawn into the chaos she is about to set free. She should be happy. Yet, at night she still appears at Guinevere’s bedchambers, as she always does. And Guinevere is waiting for her, as she always does. She draws her into her bed, thighs entwined, as always.

“What do you think about this Lancelot?”

“A bold fellow. Charming.”

Morgane’s expression turns sour. Is that what she likes? Haughty young men, with rusty armours and rusty voices?

“Elder sister? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing… I am fine.” She needs to force herself to say the following words, only to keep everything according to her initial plans. “Perhaps you will find a good friend in him too. It would be good if you spent time together.”

Guinevere finds that advice out of place, yet, a moment later she smiles again and throws an arm around her companion. She presses a kiss on Morgane’s cheek, then one on her temple. She never returns the favour, but it does not seem to faze the girl at all.

“Are you getting bored of me? That you want me to spend time with others?”

“Silly girl.”

She does not clearly know herself what that answer means.

 

Morgane casts powerful lures onto the two of them despite all her reluctance, which attract each other’s attention. They work so well that in a few days the whole court starts gossiping about their special bond. A few days later, finally Guinevere and Arthur wed too.

The last ingredient of her love potion is Guinevere’s reluctance to go to the marriage bed. It means her heart is now fully turned away from Arthur. Morgane’s path to revenge is fully paved.

Love potion is not something Guinevere will drink. She crystallizes these emotions, impressions, experiences she gathered into precious stones. They are deep red, shining like rubies.

The lure of love kept bringing Lancelot and Guinevere together, but these crystals will enhance desire, and craft the perfect illusion of love.

She crafts two rings, identical to one another, with the essence of love carved deep into them. This is her last step. Morgane only needs to wait for the perfect moment, and gift the rings to Guinevere. Guided by her spells, she will surely give a ring to Lancelot, after that, and ensure continued suffering for both herself and Arthur.

Even though Lancelot has been here for long enough, and they act more and more intimate with the queen, Morgane still visits her every night. She visits her, so Lancelot and Arthur cannot. She visits her, even if it goes against her plans.

“What do you think about Lancelot?” she keeps asking.

“He is a bold knight, and a good friend,” Guinevere always answers.

She places her head on Morgane’s chest and allows her to play with her hair, or caress her back. Her scent is still sweet, so sweet, too sweet.

“He volunteered to go on a quest, to find the Holy Grail.”

There is some silence on Guinevere’s side.

“I know.”

“Do you mourn that?”

There is some more silence. Guinevere turns her head, so she can snuggle closer to her.

“I do not know.”

That sentence breaks her heart as much as it mends it. When no answer is coming from her, Guinevere lifts her head up, and places a kiss on her chin.

“Goodnight for now, elder sister.”

Morgane stays up the whole night once again, absent-mindedly brushing the golden hair under her hands. She wonders about the future and the past, with the rubies in the back of her mind. Everything is ready.

She stays in the morning, unlike she would do normally, and they leave for breakfast together. Lancelot is there. It is his last day before he would leave for his quest. She hates the look Guinevere exchanges with him before they would take their seats.

 

When the night comes, Lancelot arrives to say his goodbyes. It should be the moment of deception. Morgane arrives a few minutes early, with a demon on each side. In a small box, she holds the trinkets she crafted for Guinevere.

Time stops.

She knows when Lancelot is supposed to arrive and she also knows that she needs to give Guinevere the gift before he does, so her artificially created love can happen between the two. Still, she is frozen into motion. She stands hidden from Guinevere, at a safe distance, looking down at her, box in hand, all ready.

Her demons nudge her.

“Mistress. The plan.”

“Mistress. We are running out of time.”

“Lancelot is approaching.”

If the gift transfers from her to Guinevere, and then from Guinevere to Lancelot, the deed is tone. The magic is made. The bond will be unbroken.

Guinevere will be punished for her faith, her beauty, her happiness. Arthur will be punished for his trust, his success, and his father. Ever since the beginning, this was fated to happen. Morgane clutched this very dream close to her chest, anticipating the day it could finally come true.

She still hesitates now.

“Mistress! Lancelot is here.”

Morgane lets the moment pass by. She allows everything to happen. Still, she cannot move.

Lancelot announces his plan to leave the morning after: to take responsibility for his ill deeds, attempting to seduce the king’s bride all that time ago. As a punishment, he is willing to die an honourable death on this quest.

Good. Lancelot should go and die on that quest, and never bother her or the queen again.

“I see,” Guinevere says.

There is nothing more, for a while. Then, she adds.

“Your quest is to find the Holy Grail, and not to die an honourable death. Respect your king and me with at least attempting to do what he has asked of you.”  

For a fleeting moment, Morgane can see that she is right: she is not that naïve, after all. Lancelot winces like he was slapped in the face.

“Your Majesty,” he breathes.

Perhaps he was looking for a more heartfelt goodbye. In fact, his actions ask for the treatment he gets. Guinevere bows her head at him, and adds, softly.

“Have a safe journey, Sir Lancelot.”

“Please, take care of yourself, my queen.”

Lancelot turns to one direction, and Guinevere leaves in the other. For a moment, she thinks her hiding place would be revealed but she walks past her without realizing that there are figures hiding in the shadow, following every step she takes. Leia and Hellawes are confused.

“… was it not your plan to give them your potion of love, mistress?”

“If Lancelot leaves, you will not have another chance to do it!”

“How will you take revenge on Arthur, then?”

They leave her shortly, to assist Guinevere with dressing into her nightgown: if they were missing for too long, the queen might start suspecting something.

Morgane is left alone with her ring box.

 

She opens it and stares at the rubies, glistening in the moonlight. When she stares at them, she can see magic swirling inside the crystals, luminous and warm.

It is the result of her deep research on Guinevere. Broken pieces of her likes, her desires, her thoughts. Even some of her memories dwell in there. These rings are powered by all they have done together ever since Morgane arrived at Camelot. She fed everything she learned of Guinevere to this magical brew.

It is not for Lancelot.

Not at all. It cannot be tainted by his disgusting touch.

Morgane brew love, to be sure. Under the red, glassy surface, affection swirls, invitingly. It is sweet-scented, like berries, and Guinevere’s hair. It is pleasing to look at. When she touches the surface of the crystals, they are throbbing with warmth, as if they were alive.

Magic is whimsical.

The magic of love is erratic. It cannot be controlled. Not even by witches as talented as Morgane herself. The magic of love forces everyone on their knees when they step at its sight and subjugates them.

She did not give the rings to Guinevere and Lancelot because she bound herself to them. She cannot. She refuses to!

Morgane presses the top of the box down and leaves the gardens. The cool wind sends shivers through her body as she enters the castle again. It dawns on her slowly enough, but her stubbornness remains. She should have known from the very beginning that she would not be able to hand Guinevere over to Lancelot. It was a wild risk to take. It was a foolish thing to trust herself with it, even.

As always, she pushes the door open to Guinevere’s quarters and enters. The girl is already in her dressing gown, with a sad smile on her face. She probably mourns Lancelot, after all, Morgane thinks bitterly.

“Elder sister. I was waiting for you.”

She walks to her bed without attempting to give her any response and takes the box out, so the girl could see it as well. Guinevere turns her head, squinting to see it better.

“What is that?”

“I have something I made for you.”

Guinevere sits up, dangling her legs at the side of the bed. Morgane sits down on the floor, by her knees, and props herself up on the girl’s thigh. She looks up at her, before slowly opening her gift.

The only magic in that thing is not the unbreakable bond it promises. It is a piece of Morgane herself. Her soul. Her effort. Her despair.

Without asking, she takes a ring and puts it around the girl’s finger. As expected from a magical tool, it is a perfect fit. Guinevere marvels at the details of it. She puts a finger on the smooth surface of the crystal.

“It’s warm!”

Morgane takes the other ring, too.

“I did not only make this for you. I made it for _us_ ,” she corrects herself, before putting it on.

Guinevere’s ringed hand finds the back of her head, scratching her scalp. There is something other than naivety in her deep, brown eyes.

“For us? Specially?”

“They are magical rings,” Morgane explains, although suddenly, her throat feels dry, and the room is spinning with her. Is this nervousness. “They ensure an unbreakable bond between those who wear them.”

She is not even sure if that is correct. Perhaps it does not. Perhaps these rings mean nothing, after all. The only thing swirling inside them is the care and despair she made them with. What she poured into them was not necessarily magic, it was all the emotions she harnessed – from Guinevere, and from herself. If there is magic in that, which could provide them with an unbreakable bond, then be it.

She doesn’t think she knows too much of magic, or love potions, after all.

“An unbreakable bond?” Guinevere takes her by the arm and encourages her to sit beside her on the bed. “A bond stronger than marriage?”

“Perhaps.”

Guinevere smiles, blissfully.

“Good. I would have hoped so.” She puts a finger under Morgane’s chin and draws her closer. “I would have hoped you feel that way.”

“… what way?”

Morgane is unsure if she is playing the fool or she is truly a fool. Thankfully, Guinevere does not mind either way. Perhaps from the nights they spent together, she has already gathered enough to know that Morgane would be reluctant to admit anything. Or to even do as much as to kiss her brows, to reciprocate her affections.

“This way,” Guinevere says, and simply kisses her.


End file.
